


On Snow Like Broken Glass

by LTRisBACK



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Both sent to do the same job, Gen, Historical, Other, Rated For Violence, Sword Fighting, Violence, Walking in the snow, bare feet, carrying your best friend, violent death of bad guy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26385301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LTRisBACK/pseuds/LTRisBACK
Summary: Aziraphale is sent to destroy the monster Grendel who is terrorising the people of Hrothgar's Hall.Crowley is sent to bring an escaped monster back to hell.They don't run into each other straight away, but they get there eventually.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 66





	On Snow Like Broken Glass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mirach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirach/gifts).



> Mirach had a dream. Then came on discord and shared that dream. This is the result of that conversation. 
> 
> Beowulf was one of my favourite folk tales growing up (don't worry, I know I'm odd) so when Mirach suggested including Beowulf in the story I jumped at the chance. 
> 
> Thank you for coming and reading! Please enjoy!

It was almost pitch black as Crowley stumbled on numb, torn feet, the weight on his back nearly bearing him down into the snow as exhaustion and cold both worked their powerful might upon his vulnerable corporation. The demon was past the point of shivering, but he somehow held onto his purpose. He had to keep moving, because Aziraphale needed him. 

On his back, Aziraphale lay insensate. The arms that were hooked around Crowley’s neck were held there only by the leather strap wrapped around them, and he wasn’t even sure that it was going to be a worthwhile effort. Aziraphale hadn’t discorporated yet, though, and as long as he hadn’t Crowley was going to fight to see that he didn’t. So he kept putting one foot in front of the other, stumbling, tripping, on the verge of collapsing as he made his way back towards the village that Aziraphale must have set out from that afternoon. 

His bare toes caught on something under the snow, trapping his foot completely, and he went crashing to the ground, trying desperately to keep Aziraphale on his back. Despite his best efforts, the angel slid around to the side, half off and into the snow. Crowley tried to get up, but his legs refused to move, and he slumped forward, trying to drag Aziraphale out of the snow, despair growing within him. 

~~Twelve Hours Earlier~~

Aziraphale tightened the last strap on his leather armour, then pulled his rabbit-fur lined cloak around himself. He turned to find half the village watching him, wide-eyed and silent. 

“Be not afraid, good people,” he called, raising a hand in the air with a smile rather more cheerful than his current circumstances made him feel. “All will be well. The monster Grendel will soon trouble you no more.” 

Double checking his sword in its sheath (a fair weapon, although nothing special) he set a foot on the mounting block, grabbed a handful of mane and swung himself onto his horse’s (1) back. Setting heel to the animal’s side, he trotted out of town, following not a trail seen by human eyes but one of literal evil, carved into the landscape as the monster had gone back and forth from its den to the village and Hrothgar’s Hall. He could sense another presence also, one that he knew well, and that reassured him that this would be a simple enough task. Crowley would listen to him, together they would arrange for the monster to be confined back in Hell where it belonged, and all would be well.

Sigh.

Meanwhile

Crowley crouched down in the snow, trying to be sure that his presence was concealed from the cave entrance. The stench of the cave was strong, and he forcefully held his tongue in human shape. He didn’t want that smell on his tongue, he was sure. Crowley hated being made responsible for lesser demons; they were only just better than hellhounds, really. They were brutish, but they had a cruel, crafty kind of intelligence, and whenever someone released one from the depths he ended up being made responsible for corralling it back downstairs when it inevitably went rogue. 

He watched the cave entrance, trying to feel out where Grendel was. He hoped it was just Grendel and they hadn’t released the monster’s mother as well. That was all he needed, to be dealing with TWO of them. He couldn’t get a clear read on the cave, and realised with a sigh that he was going to have to go in. 

Crowley had dealt with Grendel and his mother before, and that was a cause for concern. Grendel was highly intelligent, in his own way, and he wasn’t likely to be caught the same way twice. Crowley had a feeling he was going to have to discorporate the lesser demon, which was not going to be an easy or enjoyable task. He gave a sudden, violent shiver as he lay in the snow, and knew he needed to get moving. He wasn’t actually a serpent, but he certainly shared at least some of their weakness when it came to cold weather. It sapped his strength, and more than once he had nearly discorporated from nothing but the cold. If he could have put it forward as an argument for why he shouldn’t have to deal with Grendel, he would have. 

Just as Crowley started to move, he heard a noise behind him. Whirling, he just barely had time to see Grendel swinging an enormous fist at his head. He ducked, avoiding the blow, and rolled through the snow, shedding his cloak as he went to free up his movement. Grendel was already coming towards him, his long gorilla-like arms reaching for Crowley as he moved through the snow with more speed and dexterity than his cumbersome- seeming frame ought to have possessed. 

Crowley dodged away again, thinking, calculating, trying to figure out his way out of this. 

“Crow-ley,” Grendel growled, clearly furious. “Grendel no go back.” His lips drew back in a snarl and he reached for Crowley. Crowley knew better than to allow Grendel to get hold of him, and kept dodging out of reach. He drew his sword, trying to swipe at Grendel, even though he knew that weapons were largely ineffective against him. 

Grendel kept coming for Crowley, and finally his luck ran out. He slipped on a patch of ice, and Grendel jumped forward at the same time. He caught Crowley a great blow across the head, hurling him to the ground stunned. Before Crowley could gather his wits, Grendel had one of his legs in a powerful grip and was dragging him towards the cave.

It was almost dark when Aziraphale reached the end of the trail. It had been snowing for most of the last hour, obscuring anything beyond approximately ten feet, and Aziraphale was very glad that the trail he was following was not a physical one. 

He slipped out of the saddle, dropping the reins to ground-tie his horse but not wanting to leave it any more helpless than that, considering the monster he was hunting. Now that he was closer, though, he could definitely sense Crowley’s presence, which reassured him that the demon was there and would surely be able to be reasoned with that this had gone on quite long enough. 

Aziraphale slipped through the snow to the entrance, not wanting to run into Grendel before he found Crowley. He slipped inside the cave, a miracle keeping his footsteps silent. He made his way down below ground, eyes shifting back and forth as he slipped along, taking in the disgusting mess left by Grendel’s less than delicate eating habits. 

He reached a sharp corner in the tunnel, one that could easily serve multiple purposes as both a weather stop and a guardpost, and Aziraphale paused. Stopping his corporation’s breath, he listened, straining his ears to hear the slightest sound. Nothing close by, but definite movement further into the cave system. He slipped forward, peering around the corner, sword held at the ready. Beyond the corner, the cave opened out wide, and the smell got even worse. It overwhelmed Aziraphale’s senses, and he decided not to start breathing again after all. 

He slipped deeper into the cave, following the traces of Crowley’s presence that he could sense. The half-rotted corpses of the many men that had been dragged from Hrothgar’s Hall night after night were strewn around the edges, a worn path cut through the middle to a single opening on the other side making the choice of paths clear. 

Aziraphale slipped carefully across the cave, the floor sloping down under his feet. His eyes shifted constantly, aware of every shadow and wary of where the monster might be hiding. Aziraphale hated when the monsters got out of Hell; they were invariably messy and dangerous, and they set up in the worst places. Not only that, but Heaven never considered sending anyone else to deal with them when they were discovered. Somehow, that also got put together with Earthside agent activities. 

He finally reached the corridor, where whatever weak light that must have been filtering through a gap in the ceiling somewhere did not reach. Aziraphale peered but could see absolutely nothing in the soupy darkness. Instead, he had to simply creep forward, hoping to sense something before he came upon it. He ended up having to start breathing again, at least momentarily, to assess the smell, but the stench was so strong and foul that there was no point in inflicting it upon himself. He felt his way carefully with his feet, moving slowly and sliding one foot forward at a time to avoid making any noise. 

Finally, a distant sound reached his ears. Aziraphale wasn’t sure exactly what it was yet, but it was coming from up ahead, so he kept moving. He reached a corner in the corridor, and the noise was definitely closer now. More than that, there was some flickering light being thrown on the wall from around the next bend. 

He didn’t speed his steps any, instead creeping closer at what now felt like a snail’s pace, knowing that whatever was around the corner could come around and find him at any time. Still, he kept going carefully, to avoid drawing attention to himself. When he reached the corner, he carefully shifted his sword around until the shiny surface mirrored the scene in the cave. It took a moment to parse exactly what Aziraphale was seeing in that reflection, but once he had figured it out it felt as though he had been punched in the gut. 

Crowley, stripped half naked, was hanging from the roof of the cave by his wrists, rough rope suspending him by means of a makeshift pulley over a outcropping of rock. Aziraphale could not tell where the rope was tied off, but he could see Grendel. The monster was standing behind Crowley, holding a knotted length of rope. He was growling and grumbling - the noise Aziraphale heard - and every so often he drew the rope back and lashed it across Crowley’s back. 

Aziraphale’s rage burned hot within him, as he took in the sight of the blood running down Crowley’s back. It seemed that having the demon captive was distracting the monster, which was about the only vaguely positive thing Aziraphale could think of in this situation. He drew back and gathered himself, thinking quickly. Now that he had seen the monster named Grendel, he was worried. He had never seen one of Hell’s monsters that looked like this one before. It looked in some ways like one of the great apes, but the speed with which it was flicking the rope showed great dexterity. 

Aziraphale gritted his teeth, then set himself and burst around the corner, bellowing a warcry as he spun his sword at the great beast.

Crowley hung from his wrists, wondering how long it would take Grendel to grow bored and simply discorporate him. This would be an incredibly embarrassing discorporation. To be taken down by one of the beasts would not be seen as anything other than weakness. Never mind that almost no demon could take one of these things, except those who were charged with maintaining their prisons. He hissed quietly, determined to at least maintain his dignity, when the knotted end of the rope lashed across his shoulders. If he could keep quiet, he would bore Grendel faster and bring about the end of this whole shitty situation much faster. He scrabbled with his toes against the floor, trying to gain enough purchase to relieve his shoulders, but he was hung just high enough for it to be impossible. 

He didn’t bother listening in to Grendel’s demented ramblings, instead settling himself to endure. This wasn’t the worst he’d ever suffered, certainly. He’d caught a glimpse of the foully glowing sword on the other side of the cave, and he hoped desperately Grendel wouldn’t decide to get creative with it. That thing would leave wounds that he might even carry with him through discorporating. 

Crowley’s back arched against his own will, trying to escape the strength of the blow from the rope, but there was nowhere for it to go. Grendel was chuckling at the reaction when suddenly, something changed. With a loud yell, the most beautiful being Crowley had ever seen burst into the cave, sword in one hand and held defensively as he advanced into the cave. 

Grendel whirled on his feet, his speed quite at odds with his size, and roared angrily. “Angel! No angel take Grendel!” He advanced towards Aziraphale, arms held out wide. Aziraphale dodged in feinting, and Grendel danced away. Aziraphale tried to spot where the rope suspending Crowley was tied off without taking his eyes off the monster. 

Aziraphale slashed with his sword when one of Grendel’s arms got close enough, only to have the razor sharp blade almost completely deflected by the thick green hide. He danced back, trying to get out of reach of the wildly swinging arms, but one of them caught him a glancing blow to the side of his head, making his ears ring a little. 

Aziraphale retreated around Crowley, finally tracing the rope to the stalagmite it was tied to. He needed to cut that, to get the demon down, because he could now see quite clearly that he was completely out of his depth here. He was a good warrior, as much as he hated to admit it, but with a monster who was almost immune to his weapon was a real problem. 

“Crowley!” He called. “Crowley, work with me here. What are its weaknesses?” 

Crowley shook his head trying to think. The blow he had taken earlier was making it especially difficult, but that was his angel asking him a question, and damned he may be but he was still going to manage to answer. “Hand to hand and blunt objects,” he finally managed to grit out, even as Aziraphale danced further away from Grendel’s reaching arms. “Virtually immune to bladed weapons, except that one over there, but you won’t be able to touch that.” 

Aziraphale had seen the sickly glow and knew that he, indeed, would not be able to bear even the lightest brush of its steel against his skin. He cast around for anything he could use as a blunt weapon, something heavy he could swing, but unlike the previous cave this one was much more spartan, obviously a more frequently occupied space and kept relatively cleaner for that. Aziraphale growled in frustration, but step by step, matched by the monster, he drew closer to the rope. He dodged and wove around the monster’s arms, and did manage to give it a few shallow cuts that sprayed droplets of bright green blood outwards as Grendel swung his arms. 

Aziraphale was finally level with the rope, but he knew if he went straight for it Grendel would be able to block him easily. Instead, he feinted in the other direction, letting Grendel lash out towards him there even as he reversed the direction of the blow and cut through the rope with a single swipe. 

Crowley fell to the floor of the cave, trying to catch himself with his tied hands, but he still collapsed onto his face. Aziraphale was distracted enough by trying to get to him that, while he dodged one blow from Grendel, he didn’t see the grabbing hand coming until it wrapped around his upper arm and flung him across the cave into a wall. 

Crowley was already moving, squirming his way across the cave towards the sword as Aziraphale was grabbed, and he managed to roll his way away from Grendel as the monster advanced on Aziraphale. He had to get to that sword — it was the only hope either of them had of avoiding discorporation. He reached the sword and slashed his tied wrists at the blade, rubbing them back and forth swiftly as the rope frayed at what felt like a snail’s pace. His head was craned around to take in what was happening behind him, and he supposed he was lucky that Grendel was so singly focused on his new angelic prey. 

He felt the rope giving, gave a tug, and finally the fibres parted. Even as his hands sprung apart he was grabbing for the hilt of the sword and turning back to face the room. Grendel was holding Aziraphale, one enormous hand wrapped around the angel’s neck, and chuckling as he poked him in the belly. 

“Yummy angel,” Grendel was murmuring, not paying enough attention to either of his foes as the promise of fresh angel meat overcame his normally crafty mind. Even as Crowley was sneaking up behind him, Aziraphale’s hands were shifting, sliding up, and then he was locking a grip that Crowley recognised from Ancient Greece around Grendel’s wrist, pressing against something that had the monster howling in pain. Twisting, he flung his arm out and released the angel, throwing him across the cave and into the side of the stalagmite he had used to secure Crowley. 

Crowley didn’t waste a single moment of Grendel’s distraction, knowing that if he didn’t act now then they were both lost. Even as Grendel was flinging his angel around, Crowley kept his eyes locked on the back of the monster’s neck. He crossed the cave at a run, the rough stone painful underfoot, and stabbed upwards with all his might. The sword sank into Grendel’s flesh virtually without resistance, and emerged out of the monster’s mouth. Grendel managed one final step toward Aziraphale, staggering, before he fell to his knees, then onto his side. With a great, shuddering groan, the enormous body spasmed, once, twice, then went still. 

Once he was sure the monster was down, Crowley scrambled to Aziraphale, trying to assess the angel’s condition without causing him further pain. There was blood flowing sluggishly down the side of his face, from a gash in the blond curls above his temple. He lay limp, but Crowley couldn’t make out any other major injuries and he found himself hoping, chancy though they were, that the head injury was the worst of it. He tore a scrap from the angel’s own shirt where it hung from beneath his armour and wrapped it around the wound, staunching the flow of blood. Aziraphale’s armour had, Crowley hoped, absorbed the worst of the impact from both the wall earlier and the stalagmite right at the end of the fight. After a moment’s deliberation, Crowley began loosening the buckles on the heavy boiled-leather breastplate. It would need to come off so he could see if there was anything under it, and besides it weighed a ton. 

Aziraphale’s ribs all seemed to be intact, and Crowley eased his shirt back down. The angel’s cloak had taken an absolute beating at the claws of the demon, and was hanging in strips. Crowley gathered it around the angel’s body and tried to arrange it to keep him as warm as possible, then glanced around looking for the remains of his own clothing. He donned his shirt, which had fortunately lost only its buttons, and his cloak, which was almost completely intact. His boots, on the other hand, were a shredded mess, and he looked down at his feet with a grimace. It was a long way out of the cave over rough stone, then an even longer trip back to Hrothgar’s hall through the snow. There were a few scraps of fabric left, and he half-heartedly tried to wrap them around his feet in the manner of old-fashioned footwraps, but there was simply not enough. 

He gave Aziraphale’s shoulder a gentle shake, but the angel didn’t respond. The way his head simply flopped from side to side would have terrified Crowley if he hadn’t been able to clearly sense the angelic presence that radiated from him. His corporation still lived, and he still inhabited it, at least for now. 

Crowley couched next to the angel’s unresponsive corporation and took his far arm, turning his back and drawing that arm up over his shoulder. He grabbed Aziraphale’s second arm and brought it up, then clasped both forearms together. Reaching for the long leather strap and buckle that had wrapped around Aziraphale’s waist, Crowley bound Aziraphale’s arms together so that it looked as though he were holding his elbows in his hands. Reaching back, he gripped the angel’s legs behind the knees and stood, bringing him up into a well-practised battle-field carry. 

He breathed deeply at the pain in his recently beaten back, forcing himself to ignore it as he leant forward, bearing Aziraphale’s weight in a position where he could both work and minimise slipping. He stumbled out of the cave, into the pitch dark of the tunnel, and almost wished he could carry the sword for light. He wasn’t going back for it, though. Besides, with both hands fully occupied keeping a certain angel on his back, he wasn’t going to be able to carry it. 

Instead he stumbled his way along the passageway, hissing at the sharp edges from the stone that made up the floor, which was about as far from worn smooth as it was possible for a cave to be. 

They finally exited into the large cave and Crowley sped up, wanting nothing more than to get away from the charnel house stench of the place. Through that cave they went and on towards the exit, the smell receding behind them as they neared the open air. When they reached the cave entrance Crowley refused to pause, instead plunging out into the snow. He hissed as his feet sunk into the surface of the horrible, frozen stuff, the cold seeming to immediately hit his bones, but he kept walking. 

It was dark out, the only light that of a waning moon and the broad expanse of stars in the heavens. Crowley swiftly picked his markers and began making his way in the direction of Hrothgar’s Hall. Aziraphale hung as a limp weight against his aching, throbbing back, but his breath was warm against the back of Crowley’s neck, and Crowley set himself determinedly on his course. The cold wind cut into him, seeking out every gap in his protective clothing, of which there were many. 

The footing was treacherous under the snow, with no way of knowing where the sticks, rocks and holes were lying in wait for unsuspecting feet, and more than once Crowley got caught on something and, swearing, nearly fell. His feet felt as though they were on fire, but he knew the real danger would come when he could not feel them any more. He pushed on, determined. Aziraphale had saved him from a truly ignominious discorporation, being flogged to death by Grendel, and he was determined to save him as well. 

One foot in front of the other, as the sky moved on its axis above them, Crowley dragged his way back towards what passed for civilisation here. He could just make out the glow from the Hall in the distance when, stepping forward, something in the snow caught the top of his foot, and sent him tumbling forward to land face first. Crowley lay sprawled in the snow, Aziraphale half on-half off him, the grip of his bound arms now a strangling weight. Crowley struggled to move under the heavy weight, the cold of the snow swiftly sapping what remained of his strength. He was almost ready to give up and just lie there, allowing the cold to pull him under, when Aziraphale gave a groan and twitched. 

He was alive! Truly alive, not just “body hasn’t worked out to stop breathing yet.” Crowley managed to get his knees under him, leaning on an awkward angle to ease the drag on his throat. It was, Crowley was sure, one of the most difficult things he had ever done, getting his feet underneath him, twisting Aziraphale’s still-limp weight back onto his back and standing, but somehow he did it. Upright once more, although barely, they continued on towards the glow, which grew brighter and more welcoming with each step. 

Finally, they stumbled up to the wall that Grendel had bypassed by magic each night, and Crowley thudded a hand against the gate. 

“Who goes?” came the challenge, and Crowley wanted to laugh, wanted to scream. He reigned in the impulse and instead spoke as civilly as he could. 

“The slayers of Grendel,” he called back. “We need help, please, open the gate!” 

There was a muffled consultation on the far side of the gate, then it opened and a very young, very nervous face peered out from under an oversized helm. An inarticulate cry burst from his throat, and the gate was yanked wide. “Aziraphale! Quick, Byorg, I’ll get them inside, you close the gate.” The young man exited the gate, and with his first proper look Crowley corrected himself. A young woman, a sword-maid, stood there, armoured in what was clearly not made for her but would protect her well enough if needed. “Come, good man, let me assist you.” She stepped up beside Crowley and assessed the situation. “Actually, I think the best thing to do is for you to come through the gate. Then you can lay him on the ground and we can summon some litter bearers.” 

Crowley stumbled forward the last few steps, then collapsed to his knees. He heard the gate swing shut behind him, locking out the more mundane dangers of the world, but his vision was wavering, black spots floating back and forth, growing larger as he swayed. There were hands on him, on Aziraphale, and as they lifted the angel away from him it was as though they took the last of his strength with them, and he went down like a puppet with cut strings. The shouts and cries of the strangers who now surrounded them rang in his ears for long moments, then he knew nothing more.

Crowley came to feeling as though his feet had been thrust into the fires of Hell. He tried to yank them out, but his legs were oddly heavy and unresponsive, and he could not contain the pained whimper that escaped his lips. 

“Shhh, Crowley, it’s all right.” The soft voice had Crowley’s eyes flying up and head snapping around to meet the blue eyes that smiled gently down at him. “I know, I know, it hurts,” Aziraphale soothed. “We have to warm them, though, or you could lose them. It’s not as hot as it feels, the water is only warm.” 

“You...you’re awake, you’re all right?” Crowley stared, taking in every inch of his angel, who was sitting beside him wrapped in several very thick furs. There was a much cleaner, neater bandage wrapped around his head, and a few in other places, but he appeared whole and (relatively) healthy. 

“Well, I’ll admit I’m rather sore, and my head is not very happy with me.” Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled down at Crowley. “But I’m much better than I would be had I been left in that monster’s cave, or if you hadn’t managed to finish him off. Thank you, Crowley.” 

“Nnnngk, uh, yeah, well...you’re welcome, Angel,” Crowley finally managed to say. “Couldn’t have done it without you, anyway. So really, was just repaying the debt.” 

It had been the wrong thing to say. Crowley realised that as soon as the words passed his lips, but it was too late to call them back. Something in Aziraphale’s face, some light, faded slightly, even as he nodded and continued to smile. “Well, still, I think carrying me back the whole way with bare feet may have been slightly above and beyond, you foul fiend.” The teasing note made Crowley breathe a sigh of relief. He hadn’t ruined things completely. 

“Yeah, well, couldn’t really leave you there, could I? I mean, how would that look, coming back here without you?” 

Aziraphale smiled in acknowledgement of what Crowley was not saying. He could no more have left the demon behind, had their situations been reversed, after all. 

The healer added hot water to the basin that held Crowley’s feet, and the inarticulate yell that was forced from behind his lips had Aziraphale wincing in sympathy. He grabbed Crowley's hand, and managed not to yell himself at the strength of the grip. “Well, at least we know you can still feel them,” Aziraphale offered encouragingly, and Crowley glared daggers at him. The cycle continued, warm water added until Crowley’s feet had acquired a much healthier colour. Then came the job of cleaning the various cuts and scrapes that adorned them. Knowing how touchy Crowley was about his feet, Aziraphale told the healer he would take care of this himself and she should go join the feasting. 

So Crowley sat in the chair he’d been propped in in front of a blazing fire, the sounds of the celebration in the main hall echoing loudly into the room, and watched as Aziraphale knelt by his feet and, with gentle hands and a tender expression, lifted one foot and began to carefully wipe away any tiny fragments of dirt left. Once he was sure the foot was completely clean, Aziraphale slathered it in liniment, wrapped it in softest lambswool, then wrapped linen over the top just firmly enough to keep everything in place without being uncomfortable. Once he had repeated the process on the other foot and set it aside, Crowley was almost falling asleep, only the pain keeping him from just dropping off. 

“Here,” Aziraphale reached over to the table and picked up a pair of drinking horns. “Hrothgar’s best mead. It’s good for the pain, I’m told.” He took a sip and blinked, hard. “Well, it’s certainly strong. Ought to help you sleep, I know it’s going to knock me right out.” 

Crowley smiled and took a sip. The sweet drink burned all the way down, and settled like a comfortable fire in his middle. He relaxed back into the cushions propped around him, sipping on the drink and growing very rapidly intoxicated. Aziraphale was clearly listing, and Crowley glanced around,looking for where the angel could sleep other than on the stone floors. He finally spotted the wide pallet bed set up over to the side. 

“Az...Azira...ANGEL! Y’need to go lie down b’fore y’fall asleep,” he nudged the angel’s shoulder, trying to get him moving, but Aziraphale just swatted at him, now half-collapsed against the side of the chair. Crowley groaned, but forced himself to rise, hissing as his feet took his weight once more. He grabbed Aziraphale under the arms and heaved, dragging him upright and over to the pallet, where he dropped him, not bothering with the covers since the angel was still wrapped in his furs. 

Crowley started to turn away, back towards his chair, when Aziraphale seized his hand in a powerful grip and yanked. “Sleep, Crowley. ‘S better here.” He shifted and opened the furs, tucking them over Crowley as well, tugging the demon close and dropping them over him. Before Crowly could do more than make a few inarticulate noises, Aziraphale relaxed down into the bed, the arm around Crowley’s waist an iron bar. 

Giving up, Crowley accepted his fate. They were both here, both alive, his angel was alive. As he relaxed down into sleep, he smiled softly. They had made it. He hadn’t really believed they would, if he was honest, he’d just refused to give up anyway. Now here they were, and his angel was holding him tightly in his sleep. Crowley allowed his eyes to drift closed. All was well.


End file.
